


bad self portraits (of a lonely woman)

by teacupfulofbrains



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Recreational Drug Use, character study on lardo, the shitty/lardo really only happens at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23637478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teacupfulofbrains/pseuds/teacupfulofbrains
Summary: the story of lardo's senior art installation, and how it came from one experience smoking weed with shitty on the roof.
Relationships: Chris "Chowder" Chow & Larissa "Lardo" Duan, Eric "Bitty" Bittle & Larissa "Lardo" Duan, Larissa "Lardo" Duan & Shitty Knight, Larissa "Lardo" Duan/Shitty Knight
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	bad self portraits (of a lonely woman)

**Author's Note:**

> the song referenced throughout is ["bad self portraits" by lake street dive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRrjDhQLw9s). the title also comes from the lyrics to that song

It’s Shitty who introduces her to the band. They’re sitting together on the roof of the Haus, her a newly-confirmed manager for next year and him a fully-confirmed hockey player, and he’s laughing and explaining how he honestly thought the statuette she keeps on her desk to focus herself was a very complicated bong. 

“So yeah, brah, totally don’t feel like I’m pressuring you to smoke up with me or anything, it’s just that I thought it was some _dope-ass bong_ , man, and I thought, _sweet_ , someone I can smoke weed with - not that you have to or anything!” The most amazing part of this is that he _isn’t even high yet_. Larissa - Lardo, now - cuts Shitty off mid-ramble by taking a swig of beer and belching in his face.

Hockey players respect that shit, she’s learned. 

“Listen, if I was concerned about smoking weed, I wouldn’t be on the damn roof with you in the first place, would I? Just cause that statue wasn’t a bong doesn’t mean I don’t have _any_ , get a grip.” 

Shitty laughs, ruffling his hair (it’ll be an impressive flow if he grows it out over the summer) and continues scrolling through his phone playlist. He insists that one cannot smoke weed without a proper list of jams behind them; Lardo agrees, but not nearly to this extent. Shitty has nearly two hundred playlists, and about half of them are for different moods of smoking weed. 

If nothing else, she admires the man’s dedication. 

“Oh! This track’s bangin’, haven’t gotten to break out the ol’ LSD in a while!” 

Lardo pauses. “Shits, I know I said I was cool with smoking weed, but LSD’s pushing it a bit too far, don’tcha think?” Shitty blinks at her for a moment, confused, before understanding blooms on his face. 

“OH! Wait, no - Lards, I didn’t - not the _drug_ LSD, that would be _stupid_ and _irresponsible_ , obviously - no, LSD is a band! Lake Street Dive! Honestly, I thought you’d have heard of ‘em, they’re exactly the kinda weird back-alley indie music you like.” 

“That’s not the only kind of music I listen to,” Lardo mutters defensively, but she taps the playlist anyway. Guitar and drums intro the song, and Shitty starts bopping his head. The female lead’s voice begins to croon through the crappy portable speaker he has propped on the windowsill: _I bought this camera to take pictures of my love . . ._

Shitty’s right, Lardo supposes. This kind of L-S-D really does enhance the experience of smoking weed.

* * *

“I missed you, you know,” Shitty says. They’re sitting on the roof again - no weed this time, just ambient background music playing softly from Shitty’s phone speaker. “Doesn’t feel like Samwell without you.” 

Lardo elbows him (perhaps a smidgeon more gently than normally, so that he doesn’t fall off the roof). “Gross and sappy, Shits, but I missed you too.” 

Shitty sighs, stretching an arm out and leaning it along the windowsill. “Cool?” A chilly breeze blows across the roof, and Lardo shivers, huddling closer to his side. 

“Yeah, it’s cool.” Shitty wraps his arm more securely around her, tucking his jacket around her. Lardo smiles and relaxes into his warmth. They sit like that through five, six, seven more songs, Lardo quietly tracing constellations in the pattern of streetlights they can see, and then Shitty speaks.“So, listen, Lards, there’s somethin’ I wanna talk to you about.” 

“Of course,” she says, because she’s the team manager. Listening is part of what she does, and it’s hardly the first time Shitty has vented to her on the roof. “What’s up, man, what did the frogs do this time?” 

“No,” Shitty says, and his tone is suddenly serious. Lardo tilts her head up to look at him. “Something big.” 

“Are you okay?” Lardo says, pulling away from his warmth just a little so she can look at him with all the seriousness his voice carries. “Did your parents do something?” 

“No,” he says again. He won’t look at her, which is strange, because normally Shitty is all about aggressive eye contact during important moments. “I - I’ve been thinking about what happens in - when all this is over.” 

Graduation, Lardo realizes. He means graduation. She wonders if this is some sort of confession, but it doesn’t appear to be. “Go on,” she says, rubbing her fingers over the fabric of her jeans. 

“Well - I mean - Samwell’s a good four-year, but I can’t get a job with this degree. I gotta go to law school, which means I gotta _apply_ to law school, which means I gotta start thinking about how far away from here I wanna get.” Something heavy settles in Lardo’s stomach. 

“Okay,” she says. 

“Aw, hell, I’m just gonna rip the bandaid off - I’m applying to Harvard. For law school, I mean. I know it’s kinda mainstream to go somewhere so big, but like, it’s in Massachusetts, and what are the odds I get in, anyway, right?” 

He keeps rambling about law school and Harvard and white male privilege, but Lardo’s focus is gone. She can’t seem to focus on anything except the song playing on the speaker: _I’m takin’ night classes, I’m makin’ sculptures, I’m takin’ bad self portraits of a lonely woman_. 

Shitty really is graduating. As much as they joke about it and pretend that it isn’t happening, it very much is. He’ll be leaving the Haus, leaving Samwell, leaving _her_ , and it hurts far more than she wants to admit it does.

Instead, she looks at him, still rambling anxiously, and smiles. “Shits, cool it. You sound like Bitty’s mom talking to Bad Bob Zimmerman.” The rambling ends abruptly with a shriek of indignation, and Lardo congratulates herself on another successful meltdown reroute and avoidance. “I’m happy for you.” 

“Really?” Shitty says. 

“Of course I am! Despite its reputation for enabling white male privilege and all that bullshit, Harvard Law is an _amazing_ school, and I know that if you get in you’ll do great things. You, Shitty Knight, will take your time in their white male privilege world and use it to beat them fuckin’ senseless.” 

Shitty grins, hugging her tight. “ _Fuck_ yeah I will!” 

Lardo buries her face in Shitty’s shirt and bites down on all of her emotions. This is neither the place nor the time.

* * *

“Why did I leave this until the last minute?” Lardo moans. She’s burned herself with the hot glue gun at least five times, and this isn’t an uncommon occurrence. One day, she will learn. That day is not today. 

“Give me the bedazzler,” Shitty says, pulling it from her hands and rotating the plans she’s spread all over the table. “Also, you didn’t leave it till the last minute, you planned it out seven times and the first five attempts didn’t fit your artistic vision. You thought the sixth one did, and then it didn’t anymore. The muse is a fickle bitch, bro. Not your fault she escaped you.” 

Shitty attaches three more gems in quick succession, and suddenly Lardo is crying. 

“Lards? Aw, hell, did I fuck it up? I’m so sorry -”

“No,” Lardo sniffles, reaching over and swatting at his shoulder. “No, you’re doing amazing, you fucking moron.” Shitty looks adorably baffled. 

“Then what -”

“What the _fuck_ am I gonna do when you graduate?” she says, and just like that the dam is broken and she’s sobbing on the floor. There are shuffling sounds from Shitty setting the bedazzler down, and then he kneels next to her and pulls her into a hug. 

“Hey,” he says softly. “It’s gonna be okay, Lards. Don’t cry, if you cry I’m gonna keep crying, I swear -” 

Lardo buries her face in his shoulder and _wails_ , because Shitty is not in charge of her emotions, and also she doesn’t think she could have held it in if she wanted to. Shitty rubs her back, hiccuping quietly, and they both stay there for a solid fifteen minutes. 

“Do you wanna chalk this up to a stress-induced breakdown because we were bedazzling at four AM and not mention it to anyone else?” Lardo asks. Shitty’s mustache tickles her ear when he responds. 

“Sure. And I’m putting a moratorium on mentions of me graduating, okay? If you mention it, I get to . . . I dunno, noogie you or something.” 

Lardo laughs. “Deal.”

* * *

She locks herself in the women’s bathroom so that none of them can follow her. 

Lardo appreciates her boys, she really does, but she doesn’t feel like trying to explain the complicated web of feelings she’s cramming down into the pit of her stomach to a group of admittedly well-intentioned hockey bros when she’s not really capable of explaining them to herself at the moment. She fishes out her phone instead, thankful that she’d let her theater friend alter this dress to include pockets, and digs her earbuds out as well. She just needs something, _anything_ , to distract herself from the crushing reality that _Shitty got into Harvard law, Shitty is graduating, Shitty is_ leaving -

“ _I bought this camera to take pictures of my love,_ ” filters into her ears. “ _Now that he’s gone, I don’t have anybody to take pictures of . . ._ ”

Lardo knows she should just skip the song. She lets it play on loop for ten minutes before splashing water on her face and rejoining the exhibition.

* * *

“It’s taunting me, Bits,” Lardo groans, sprawling dramatically over the kitchen table. 

“What is, sugar?” Bitty says sympathetically. Lardo gestures to the blank sketchbook open in front of her on the table. “The . . . book? Lards, I’m sorry, but I ain’t seein’ anything to taunt you in that - oh.” 

“I don’t have to produce any finished pieces for _months_ , thank goodness, but my _rough draft idea_ is due to my advisor in _thirteen hours_ and I have _nothing_ to show her!” 

“So that’s why you’re accompanying my midnight baking session,” Bitty says knowingly. Lardo throws an eraser at him. “Well, whenever I’m stressin’ I always put on some music. Beyonce is my lady of choice, but I’m sure you have your own catalog of artists, so I am willin’ to make an exception.” 

Lardo throws her phone on shuffle, jerking her head up at the intro to the first song. “ _I bought this camera . . ._ ” 

“Oh, I like this one!” Bitty hums, turning back to his mixer. Lardo stares at her phone like it’s just sprouted legs and scuttled away. She hasn’t heard this band, this _song_ , since . . . 

_Since my junior art show_ , she realizes. 

Lardo picks up her pencil and begins scribbling ideas in the notebook. Once she starts writing, she can’t stop. The inspiration pours out of her, and she barely notices Bitty putting things into the oven and taking things out of the oven and offering her a freshly baked whatever-it-is-he-made.

She’s going to have a _shit_ ton of work to do in a short timeframe, but it might work out.

* * *

Different mediums, as Lardo already knew, are a bitch to work with. The technique that fits one perfectly is absolutely pointless (or in some cases, dangerous) for another. None of this is news to her when her advisor points it out. 

“You set the bar fairly high with your junior art exhibition,” she says. “Are you sure that this is the wisest choice? Your senior year is already going to be quite busy, Larissa. Maybe you should consider -”

“It won’t work if I don’t have all these different mediums,” Lardo says. “Trust me, I thought about this for a long time.” Four hours, but her advisor doesn’t have to know that. “It’s an integral part of the project. The evolution through different mediums reflects the evolution of the collection. I know it’s like, seven different art pieces, but in truth it’s meant to come together as one big art piece.” 

Her advisor sighs. “Well, you’re clearly passionate about it, so I don’t see why this can’t go ahead as planned.” 

Lardo grins, diving into the specifics of some of the pieces. She can’t wait to get started.

* * *

“ _No way! You’re seriously not gonna tell me what the installation is?_ ”

“I’m seriously not. Wait, are you fuckin’ _crying_?”

“ _I_ always _get to know what the installation is! Hell, I help you_ build _most of them_ -”

“And that is precisely why you’re not allowed to know! You _always_ fuckin’ know, Shits, it’s time for you to be surprised and marvel at my genius like the rest of the world.” 

“ _You are ice cold, bro_.” 

“I manage an ice hockey team. If I was any warmer I’d melt their goddamn rink.” 

“ _Fair point. Feel like getting phone-high together?_ ”

“I told you to stop fuckin’ calling it that, it sounds too close to phone sex for me.” 

“ _I mean -_ ”

“No, no, no, gross, I can already picture the weird-ass mustache wiggle you’re doing, and I _will_ hang up on you.” 

“ _You wouldn’t da -_ ”

**Call ended (duration 17:35).**

* * *

****Lardo holds a paintbrush up to the sunlight, flicking the bristles along her thumb as she examines it. She doesn’t know for sure if she wants to use this one, because it might distort the texture of the paint on her canvas, but she’s already gone through about seventeen so far and she knows she doesn’t want to use a new brush. She wants a worn one. She wants history on the canvas.

Bitty sticks his head into the room, sets a to-go cup of Annie’s on the desk with a Tupperware that smells like cinnamon and honey and perfection, and wishes her good luck. She remembers to grunt her thanks at him before he closes the door.

* * *

“Whoa, you’re actually here!” 

Lardo raises an eyebrow at Chowder before flopping face-first onto the couch. She immediately regrets it and sits up, who _knows_ what’s been on that couch recently, and frowns at Chowder. “I live here, Chow.” 

“No! I - I just meant we haven’t seen you in like, seventeen thousand hours!” 

“It’s cause my senior art show is consuming my every waking thought, fuck off,” Lardo says. “Did you actually need something from me, or are you just surprised that I’m alive? Cause I’m very much alive, and I will kick your ass.” 

“It’s ‘swawesome that you’re alive, Lardo, I just - I had a request?” Lardo looks up from her phone, and Chowder looks surprisingly serious. She hadn’t known he could look that serious.” 

“Sure, Chow, what’s up?” 

“I - uh - um - will you paint my nails?” he blurts out. Lardo stares at him for a moment. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, it was assuredly _not_ that. Apparently taking her silence as a negative reaction, Chowder waves his hands around and begins rambling. “Not because you’re a girl! I’m not trying to imply that you know how to paint nails because you’re a girl, cause that’s super sexist, but you’re an _artist_ and I know you do paintings and I thought maybe you would be good at painting -”

“Chow,” Lardo says, interrupting the tangent. “Of course I’ll help you, I didn’t think you were asking because I’m a girl. Can I ask why, though?” 

Chowder rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “I keep biting my nails, and I know it’s not good for me so I’m trying to break the habit and I figured if I had little artworks on my nails I wouldn’t bite them because I wouldn’t wanna ruin the art!” 

“That sounds ‘swawesome, Chowder, I’d be happy to help you.” 

She paints his nails Samwell red, decorating them with hockey pucks and nets and sticks and his jersey number. Chowder almost cries from how much he loves them, and Lardo pats his head while he loudly blows his nose.

* * *

“Where is your studio, anyway?” Bitty asks. “I know Shitty’s the only one who’s ever seen it, but like, where _is_ it?” 

“It’s nothing special,” Lardo says, aggressively swiping back and forth on Subway Surfer. “It’s a warehouse a few minutes off-campus. I’ve got a pretty sweet rent deal goin’ on with the owner, they’re an arts patron who’s willing to cut a struggling artist a break. And Shitty really only knows about it because I had a breakdown and dragged him in there to help me finish things once, and then he wouldn’t fuckin’ leave.” 

“Did it bother you? That he knew, I mean?”

“Not really,” Lardo says. “I mean, he’s always been my best friend, y’know? And he was helpful, when he was there, always giving me inspiration and helping me finish stuff. I guess it kinda sucked that I was never able to surprise him, you know what I mean? Like, he always saw my work before it was done, so I always worried that watching the process meant he’d somehow be less impressed with the final product.” 

“Does that make this show weird?” 

“Kind of? But at the same time, it’s like, I’m finally gonna get to surprise _everyone_ at once, you know? Shits has _no idea_ what’s coming, and you’ve seen snatches of it when I bring materials and shit to the Haus and flipping through my notebook, but projects like this are almost _never_ anything like their initial draft when you finish them. You know what I mean?” 

“Sort of? I usually don’t deviate from my recipes much myself, but sometimes you experiment and it doesn’t always work out perfect but you get somethin’ new.” Bitty turns on the stand mixer, and Lardo crashes into a train, and the conversation peters out.

* * *

“ _I can’t believe they let you handle a fuckin’_ chainsaw _, Lards!_ ”

“I mean, there wasn’t anybody there to let me or not let me. Ransom borrowed it for some reason, and I borrowed it from him, and it cut down the work I had to do on the rough shape of the sculpture by, like, half.”

“ _Listen, if anyone was gonna handle a chainsaw, it would be you_.” 

“Aw, thanks, Shits. As soon as I get the date of the show set in stone, I’ll send you a fancy-ass formal invitation. It’ll be great.” 

“ _I expect the fanciest one, Lards_.”

“I promise I will not disappoint.” 

**Call ended (duration 1:25:08).**

* * *

****Lardo hums as she drags a scalpel along the blob of clay in front of her. It would probably make sense, since this installation is meant to showcase a chronological sequence of events, for her to work on it in chronological order, but she’s never really been one for conventional anything. Her inspiration playlist blares softly through the tinny speakers she’d installed in the ceiling one day over the summer, and her past work decorates the walls around her.

Rain drums on the roof, and Lardo is at peace.

* * *

**(Voicemail, 12:27 PM)**

“Hello, Ms. Duan, this is Sheila Richards from the pottery studio, responding to your call inquiring about our hours of availability for use of the pottery wheels and kiln. The class schedule is as follows . . .”

* * *

“So you’re . . . making pots . . . to break them and make something else?” Dex asks. 

Lardo nods. “It’s a metaphor, Dex. I know it doesn’t make sense to somebody who spends their whole life fixing broken things, but there’s this Japanese thing where they take broken pots and repair them with silver or gold in the seams, and it’s kind of based on that, but -”

“Yeah, okay, it still sounds a little weird.” Dex turns back to his coding homework. Lardo hadn’t expected him to pay much attention to what she’s doing; she knows her teammates support her, but none of them really understand why she does what she does. Still, her chest squeezes a little. She misses Shitty a lot these days, but she misses him especially at times like this.

* * *

_Larissa Duan is pleased to invite you to her SENIOR ART SHOW_

_Date: April 17, 20XX_

_Time: 8:00PM_

_Attire: Formal_

* * *

“How’s it going?” Bitty asks. Lardo groans loudly, letting herself melt out of the kitchen chair and collapse in a puddle under the kitchen table. “That badly, huh?” 

“No, it’s actually going pretty well, all things considered, it’s just a _lot_ , you know? The wood sculpture and the clay sculpture are done, the big painting’s halfway to completion, but there’s still a smaller painting, a charcoal sketch, and a sculptural armature I haven’t even _started_ yet, plus the pots won’t be done in the kiln for another week and I can’t work on the mosaic until they’re done so I can shatter them.” 

“It certainly sounds like you have a lot on your plate,” Bitty says, “and I hate to add more, but I _did_ just finish this batch of cinnamon rolls, and -”

“Bits, if you do nod immediately load my plate with seven cinnamon rolls and funnel them into my mouth, I will unfriend you.”

* * *

“What are you saying?” 

“ _Look, you know I want to be there, right? You know that I love and support you, you know that I would be there in a heartbeat if I could, I just - I thought this thing was the weekend after, I didn’t realize it conflicted with your show, I -_ ”

“It’s okay.” 

“ _Lards, it’s not -_ ”

“No, it’s fine, Shitty. I know you’d be there if you could. It’s not your fault. I’m not upset with you.”

“ _But you are upset_.” 

“There’s nothing we can do about it, Shits. You can’t reschedule that thing, and I can’t reschedule the installation. It’ll be up for a while, it’s not a one-night-only thing, so you’ll still get to see it. Don’t worry, okay?” 

“ _Lardo -_ Larissa _, wait_ -”

“I gotta go. These idiots aren’t gonna beat themselves at Smash Bros. Talk later, Shits.” 

**Call ended (duration 7:13).**

* * *

****Lardo doesn’t have any sort of magical foresight. She can’t predict the future. Still, as she smashes pots in her studio, screaming her frustrations against the loud, angry music blaring in the background, she thanks past Lardo for making the centerpiece such a cathartic creative exercise.

* * *

**(Voicemail, 12:37 AM)**

“Hey, Lardo. It’s me. You haven’t answered my calls in the past week, and I’m all about giving people personal space and shit but I’m high and rambling so you’re gonna have to forgive me. You’re either ignoring me cause you’re swamped with work or cause you’re pissed about me not coming to the opening of your art show. If it’s the first one, cool! Sorry to bother you, keep doing work, I can’t wait to see it when I get down there because I’m sure it’ll be wonderful. Please feel free to disregard the rest of this message.

If it’s the second one . . .

I know you’re not upset with me, but you’re upset with the situation, and that sucks because it is technically my fault and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. I wouldn’t be attending this shitty conference thing if I didn’t have to, and if it wasn’t so far out of state I would definitely come back for opening night. I’m sorry, Lardo. I don’t want to ruin your senior art show for you.”

* * *

Lardo pulls on her thick leather gloves and begins hot-glueing shards of pottery to the giant canvas that’s currently taking up two-thirds of the available floorspace of her studio. Normally, she wouldn’t be committing the major part of her installation to finality so early, but there’s nobody to help her rebuild it if she decides to scrap it and nobody around to help her finish it last-minute. 

Plus, it really is a _huge_ project, and it’s the only piece that’s really remained consistent throughout her whole vision of this installation, so she might as well work on it. 

Much as she says she pours her blood, sweat, and tears into her art, she doesn’t really want her blood anywhere near all this broken pottery, hence the mountain of sandpaper at her side to dull some of the sharper edges. Unfortunately, sandpaper has one of the _worst_ sounds, so she pops her wireless earbuds in and gets to work. 

_I bought this camera . . ._

Fitting, Lardo thinks, picking up a square of sandpaper and rubbing the pottery with a touch more vigor than is strictly necessary.

* * *

**(Voicemail, 2:53 AM)**

“Hey, Shits. It’s kinda a combination of both of those things. I am really busy putting this whole shitshow together. I don’t think I’ve seen the sun in two weeks’ time. If Bitty didn’t leave me food I’m sure I would be dead by now.

All that being said . . . you’re not wrong. I was pretty pissed that you weren’t coming. And I was avoiding your calls, kinda selfishly, because I didn’t wanna talk about the project with you. I didn’t think I could without blowing up at you. But I shattered a bunch of pottery - for the installation, don’t worry - and I think I worked out all my frustrations about the situation and whatnot. 

I miss you. I’m sorry. Call me back when you get a chance.”

* * *

“ _So the installation is pretty much done?_ ”

“Yeah, just the final walkthrough left this afternoon so I can tweak any last parts that need tweaking. Last-minute bedazzling, adjusting the positions, et cetera et cetera. Want it as perfect as possible, y’know?” 

“ _I’m proud of you, Lards_.” 

“Gross, you sound serious, Shitty.”

“ _I am serious. You always work so hard on all your art, and I know how much you love showing it off to other people. This is your senior show, bro!_ ”

“Don’t make me cry.” 

“ _Wasn’t trying to! But seriously, I know you’re gonna be amazing._ ” 

“Thanks, Shitty.”

“ _No problem_.”

**Call ended (duration 45:09).**

* * *

****The installation turns out to be a huge success.

Lardo titles it _Bad Self-Portraits_ and uses it to showcase self portraits in a variety of mediums, based on various people’s interpretations of who she is as a person. There’s a mobile composed entirely of wire Vietnamese characters and symbols with the statuette hanging down in the center, symbolizing her parents’ interpretation of her. There’s a clay statue that shows a series of swirling streams with a humanoid figure rising up out of it, representing her interpretation of how she feels when the muse hits her just right. There’s how the hockey team interprets her, how her professors interpret her, and more. 

The crowning jewel is the mosaic. 

From up close, it looks like trash - pottery shards, pieces of glass and cloth all glued together. But from a distance, it shows a young woman surrounded by light, pulled together out of shards of destruction to create something beautiful. Something _better_ than the sum of its parts, collectively - how she sees herself. 

It’s perfect. The only thing that could make her happier is the presence of one single person.

* * *

Lardo is waving goodbye to the last of the hockey team as they stumble off home, slightly drunk, when someone taps her on the shoulder. She assumes it’s her advisor, or maybe one of the investors that always attends, and she has her “professional-artist” face on when she turns. 

“How can I - Shits?” 

He looks like a mess, shirt buttoned the wrong way, tie wrapped around him like a scarf. “Did I miss it?” he says. 

“Wh - how are you -”

“I bolted out of there as soon as I could, I’m pretty sure I broke about three speed limits, but it’s still opening night, right? I didn’t miss it? I can come see the installation?” 

Lardo stares at him for a moment before breaking into a huge grin and throwing herself at him. “You didn’t miss it, you colossal dork, you’re just in time.” 

Shitty is appropriately impressed with the installation, exclaiming loudly at each and every thing she shows him. It’s perfect. 

The kiss he gives her under the mobile is pretty perfect, too.

**Author's Note:**

> come scream at me on tumblr // [@teacupfulofstarshine](https://teacupfulofstarshine.tumblr.com)


End file.
